Irrational, Unconditional
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock may be a genius, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have his fears. Unrelated oneshots putting Sherlock into situations where he gets a little bit frightened. Chapter Six: Failure is his biggest fear.
1. Flying

**Irrational, Unconditional**

John knew better than to think it... but Sherlock had also taught him to _observe_ his surroundings and right now, thirty-thousand feet above the ground, John was observing that Sherlock Holmes did not like flying.

Of course, this was a given going into the plane trip for a case. Sherlock hated to sit still when he had something on, and an eleven hour flight to America left little room for the consulting detective to do anything. So, he was antsy. That was to be expected.

However, Sherlock looked _nervous_. He was fidgeting, licking his lips often, occasionally gnawing at his lip as he gazed out the window. He barely looked away from it but when he did, his eyes bounced from one thing to another erratically. He hadn't touched a thing to eat and wouldn't have anything to drink, and mostly just sat with earbuds in and listened to... whatever he was listening to on them.

Sherlock shifted again, switching his legs to cross them at the opposite ankle, tongue flicking out to wet his lips again.

John sighed. He didn't _really_ know if Sherlock was anxious because of the plane ride or if, perhaps, something was wrong with him. He reached over and hooked a finger around the earbud cord to pull it loose.

Sherlock looked around at him, frowning. "What?"

"Are you okay?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're fidgeting all over the place. I asked you if you wanted the aisle-"

Sherlock shook his head once. "I'm fine."

John resisted the urge to sigh - again. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" Sherlock asked.

"The 'I'm fine' thing when you're clearly not. You keep biting your lip, licking them. You're fidgeting, so you're clearly uncomfortable. Either you're just antsy because we're on a case and there's nothing to do up here or something's wrong. Have to go to the loo or something?"

Sherlock swallowed just then, a motion that John nearly missed but immediately recognised, given the circumstances.

"Are you sick? You're not going to throw up, are you?"

Sherlock scowled. "I am not. I hope I'm not," he muttered, more to himself. "I think I will stretch my legs, though," he said, raising his voice again.

John watched him stand, a little less fluidly than usual. "You get motion sickness?"

"_Air_ sickness," Sherlock clarified. "I have no problem on trains or in cars. Yes, I do."

John frowned. "Did you take something?"

"For air sickness? No." Sherlock moved past John easily, stepping out into the aisle.

John followed him with his eyes. "They make meds, you know, pills."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Do they?"

John sighed. "Maybe take some next time you go on a flight."

Sherlock nodded slightly before putting his hands in his pockets and striding away with as much grace as a man with air sickness on a plane. John watched him vanish into the loo, wondering if he had gone there to throw up and wouldn't tell him after.

Still, when Sherlock returned, he was sipping at some light carbonated drink and seeming, if not nauseated, more nervous. He flopped right back into his seat and sighed heavily over his drink, eyes slipping closed. Almost as soon as they had closed, they opened right again and returned to the window.

"Sherlock?"

He had been about to ask if he was sure that he was okay when the seatbelt sign clicked on. John sighed, prodded Sherlock and pointed at the sign, and fastened up his belt.

"Did you go to the toilet to throw up?" John asked bluntly, looking back at him.

Sherlock looked back at him. "What? No. I went to the toilet to _use_ the toilet," he said dryly, looking back at the window. "And with relatively good timing, given the seatbelts." He sighed, reaching for his drink again.

The captain informed them that they were going to be experiencing some turbulence soon, but John disregarded the announcement in favour of watching Sherlock. "Is there a reason you aren't looking away from the window? Can't be that interesting."

Sherlock looked back at him again. "Not really."

"Is that a not really to the reason question or a not really to the interesting statement?"

Sherlock's lips twitched down again. "What?"

John sighed. "Nevermind."

John was just about to turn back to his book when he noticed the turbulence. Just a small bump, nothing that particularly bothered him, but the reason for the seatbelt was clear in that moment.

And, also, something _else_ became quite clear in John's mind at that exact moment.

Because Sherlock's head had snapped up at the bump and, for a moment, there was a flash of full-blown panic blowing Sherlock's pupils wide in the brightly-lit cabin.

"... You're afraid of flying," John said. It wasn't a question.

Sherlock swallowed again and set his drink down. "I would say that 'afraid' is a bit of a stretch," he muttered, swallowing yet again.

John started to wonder, sincerely, if Sherlock would keep his stomach down. There was no option of getting to the loo now and John doubted Sherlock's tolerance to throwing up into a paper bag.

"You're afraid," John said quietly.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, fine, I am. I'm not very good at flying and I never have been. It's too cramped and boring and there's an infinite amount of things that could wrong. A simple bird strike could take the whole plane down."

"You know the probability of that happening, right?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighed. "It is irrational. But..." he trailed off. John watched him shiver, visibly, and look away.

"It's alright to be scared," John said, "but I'm sure we'll be fine."

Sherlock shrank in on himself slightly, ducking his head. "That is the logical outcome." He swallowed, fidgeting a bit more.

"... Sherlock," John muttered. "We're fine. You're fine."

Sherlock looked back at the window. "Yes." His squirming had stopped, but his foot had started to bounce quickly.

"Why do you keep looking out the window if you're afraid of flying?"

"I want to make sure the plane isn't going to crash when I'm not looking," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "It's not going to crash. Just a little turbulence."

Even as he spoke, there was another jolt from the turbulence. Sherlock's breath caught and his exhale sounded almost like a whimper.

"Hey." John reached over, gripping his shoulder. "Everything's going to be fine. Okay?" Sherlock ignored him. "Sherlock," John repeated, squeezing his shoulder. "Look at me."

Sherlock looked back at him. "What?" His eyes flicked to John's hand on his shoulder and then back to meet his gaze.

"We're going to be fine," John said strongly. "We'll clear this shortly and the rest of the flight is going to be smooth sailing. Alright?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before ducking his head in a nod. "Yes... not that you would know, really."

"You doubt my deduction?"

"Well, anything can happen," Sherlock muttered.

"Anything can. I could become a genius in the next twenty minutes," John said cheerfully, dropping his hand.

Sherlock stared, again, before raising his chin slightly and straightening his spine. "I take it back. Not everything can happen," he muttered.

John laughed quietly and offered Sherlock's earbuds back to him. "Put those in, put on something relaxing, and... you know, relax."

Sherlock paused before taking them, pushing them back into his ears with a hesitant half-smile.

* * *

**Okay, call it OOC. Get it out of your system. Okay? Now onto the point; I'm writing a series dealing with Sherlock having everyday, normal fears. Fear of flying, for instance. I know it's slightly OOC; he doesn't seem like one to be scared of inane things, but I wanted to explore with him being human. (Because I haven't done that enough already...) Each chapter will stand-alone and will not have to be read in any particular order.**

**(Not to mention I'm sort of having a breakdown that the fact that they filmed the last episode of _Cabin Pressure_ last Sunday and I can't write CP when it's making me so sad so I stuck Sherlock on a plane for this chapter as a bit of allusion.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I'm just trying to scare the detective a bit. :D And your opinions are, as always, always the reason that I write at all. Thank you!**


	2. Small Spaces

When the door swung shut behind them, John didn't think much about it. Of course, he noticed afterwards, when he walked straight into Sherlock's back, that they'd just walked into an impossibly cramped closet and he'd really like to get out of it now. He was about to turn around to leave when there was a click and both he and Sherlock paused.

"... John, the door."

"I think-"

"No."

John tried the knob, finding it locked. "Uh... yes. We are. Locked in, that is. In a closet."

"This is not _helping my night_!" Sherlock retorted, voice pitching into an annoyed growl as he grabbed at the doorknob.

John sighed, trying to back away from Sherlock. There was very little room to go anywhere, maybe two feet to the right if he desired. Either way, he and Sherlock would still brush costs no matter if they were standing at the opposite ends of the closet. It was uncomfortable... although John suspected it could be worse. They could be stuck in a lift or a freezer or a sauna.

"Can't we... I don't know, kick it open?"

Sherlock sighed. "Don't be stupid. Didn't you _see_ the lock?"

John opted not to say that he hadn't. He wasn't sure how that stopped them from kicking it open, but Sherlock probably knew best... Besides, Sherlock seemed a little annoyed right now and John did _not_ want to anger the bull he had to sit in a closet with.

"Okay," he said, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. It was chilly. "Well, call Lestrade and maybe he can come and do the lock?"

"Just texted him," Sherlock muttered. He huffed and flopped down in a corner, drawing his knees to his chest.

John sighed and followed his example, crossing his legs.

It started with a sigh.

John didn't think much of it, Sherlock sighing. Sherlock was dramatic. He did things like that, sigh dramatically and flop himself over the furniture. It was very... Sherlock.

And then another sigh, slightly more breathless.

By the third, the sigh had turned into a little cough and John glanced towards him. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

John squinted towards his face to make out the detective's features in the gloom. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "What?"

"What's wrong? You sound... odd."

Sherlock let out the breath he had just taken in a deep gust. "Fine."

Out of reflex, John reached out to press his hand against Sherlock's forehead. It wasn't warm, but he was covered in sweat. "Sherlock, what's _wrong_?"

Sherlock leaned again. "Don't. I'm hot."

"It's not warm."

"_I'm_ burning." Sherlock coughed again, doubling over slightly.

"Sherlock!" John moved over to him. "Sherlock, breathe, what's wrong?"

Sherlock waved his hand around. "The walls... not enough air... Can't breathe."

John frowned. Something about that statement clicked in his mind, but he would focus on it later. "Come on, breathe in. No, just do it with me. In." He took a deep breath and Sherlock seemed to mirror it. "Out."

He kept this regime up for a few more rounds until Sherlock's breathing was somewhat more of a semblance of proper.

"Okay?"

Sherlock sucked in another deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhaled. "Sort of."

"Just keep taking steady breaths. Can I take your pulse?"

Sherlock paused before holding his hand out. John smiled faintly and pulled the glove off, pressing his fingers gently against Sherlock's wrist.

"You're alright," John murmured. "I promise there's enough air. The ceiling goes up at least nine feet and fresh air is coming in between the cracks of the door. Lestrade will be here soon, anyway. We're both going to be fine."

"Just as the walls aren't actually closing in," Sherlock mumbled weakly. "But my mind plays tricks on me to make me think that they are."

"Claustrophobia," John said.

"Yeah, I know," Sherlock said in the same weak voice. "It's just inconvenient..."

John let go of his wrist. "I know. Just keep breathing, don't think about it. We'll be out soon and on with the case, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

John returned to his spot against the wall, trying to give Sherlock as much space as possible. "I'm sorry that I'm in here with you. Wish you had more space."

Sherlock opened his eyes slightly. "I'm not. I'm glad you're here. I probably would work myself into a true panic attack if you weren't here to reign me in."

"Yeah, but I'm sure it would be less stuffy..."

"Hm." Sherlock dropped his head back against the wall with a thin sigh. "I don't find you stuffy at all."

The back of John's neck started to feel warm and he hoped that he wasn't blushing. It wasn't like there was anything particularly _embarrassing_ about that statement, but... it was a compliment from Sherlock Holmes. Those didn't happen very often.

John chalked it off on the lack of oxygen and turned towards the door to wait, although a small smile played along his lips and he was helpless to push it away.

* * *

**Kudos to EI Cochrane for the wonderful idea. I somehow manage to make these cute and fluffy (in my opinion) for being so short and with a panicky Sherlock. xD**

**Your thoughts? Thank you for the support!**


	3. Dentist

He was nervous.

John could tell it from the moment they stepped into the office. He'd been nervous since last night, since the appointment, but... it was getting kind of extreme, John thought.

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair, eyes flickering from one spot to another. He wasn't saying a word, but his brain was working so fast that it was almost making John's head hurt.

"You don't have to be nervous," he said shortly.

Sherlock's attention snapped around to him. "What? Nervous? I'm not nervous."

John sighed. "Don't act like you're not, your body language gives it away. Besides," he said, glancing towards the receptionist's windows. "Everybody's nervous first time at the dentist."

Sherlock huffed and turned away.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Both Sherlock and John looked up when the nurse called for Sherlock.

"That's you," John said cheerfully, turning the page of a back issue of a gossip magazine. "Have fun."

Sherlock stood up, although he stopped when John spoke. "You're not coming back?"

John glanced up, his laugh turning to a frown when he saw Sherlock's face. "Why would I...? Unless... you want me to?"

Sherlock stared at him studiously.

John sighed. "Fine." He stood up, taking the magazine with him. "Go on. _I _can't do anything, you know."

"I didn't say you could." Sherlock strode ahead and followed the nurse back to the room, John trailing behind.

The man could be wrist-deep in a corpse but he was still nervous about the dentist. John would have laughed - and probably would, later - if Sherlock's face didn't look so serious.

See, he'd had a toothache. Which nearly put the man out of commission, because Sherlock didn't deal with annoyances very well. It was like a person thinking too much; he couldn't handle the constant throb beneath his gums when he chewed. So, after going through the hassle of finding Sherlock a dentist (because he hadn't been to one since he was a child, apparently), they were here, finally, and Sherlock was nervous.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably when the nurse had left, saying the doctor would be in shortly. He thumped his head back into the rest and then shifted again.

John looked up just as Sherlock was about to stand up. "What _are_ you doing? Sit still," he muttered.

"I can't," Sherlock retorted. "I'm antsy. I don't like having someone muck about in my mouth, with my teeth."

"I thought you hadn't been to a dentist," John said dryly.

"I don't like the _idea_ of it," Sherlock stressed. "Which is why I've never been. I take care of my teeth _for_ that reason."

John shook his head and was about to turn back to his crap magazine when he noticed Sherlock's hair quivering. Trembling, actually. Which probably meant- "Are you shivering?" he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Sherlock shrank in on himself slightly. "It's cold."

"No, it's not." John put his magazine down. "Just calm down. It's not going to hurt."

"That remains to be seen," Sherlock muttered.

"They'll put some gel on your gum before they even give you the shot, so it'll just bit a little pinch and pressure after you're numb. It's not going to hurt," John repeated firmly. If Sherlock could remember complex chemistry formulas, maybe John battering this into Sherlock's brain would help him calm down, too. "Just close your eyes when they're working."

"Sensory deprivation," Sherlock immediately shot back.

"Yeah, but if you're watching, you'll worry more about what they're doing with what they're putting in your mouth and the tools can look scarier than they actually are, Sherlock."

Sherlock licked his lips, about to say something else when the dentist walked in.

"Relax," John mouthed, leaning back in his seat as Sherlock leaned back as well. It didn't help the worried look on the detective's face.

For all his worrying, the numbing shot went without complaint, although Sherlock was studiously in a not-talking mood afterwards. His fingers were curled around the armrest of the chair and he didn't relax, despite what John told him.

Sherlock _did_, though, get more and tense as time went on. By the time that the dentist actually started to drill away at his tooth, Sherlock's knuckles were stark white thanks to his grip on the armrest.

Barmy clod.

It was just the dentist. That was nothing compared to some things that Sherlock went through.

John sighed and pushed his chair over. "Let me know if I'm in your way, Jay," he said to dentist - this was _his_ dentist, actually - and settled next to Sherlock, tapping the back of his hand absently.

Sherlock jumped, although, after a second, his fingers settled over John's. He started tapping; it took John a few seconds to realise Sherlock was tapping out Morse to him.

_C-A-N-T_.

Can't. John tilted his head. _C-A-N-T_-_W-H-A-T_ he tapped back.

_R-E-L-A-X_.

John sighed. Instead of tapping a response back - he wasn't going to try and argue in Morse with Sherlock, not like this - he just settled his hand on top of Sherlock's. He knew what it would look like. He didn't care.

Sherlock's fingers shifted again to wrap around John's hand, squeezing his fingers tightly.

John smiled faintly, squeezing back gently.

* * *

**Coming from somebody who was worked up to the point of tears about having to go to the dentist this week for something that went very smoothly (thank you, dentist). Also, coming from somebody who's been to the dentist so much that I _shouldn't_ even be nervous at this point but always end up shivering with my hands curled into fists into my coat pockets. x'D Anyway, it doesn't seem like Sherlock would spend a lot of time at the dentist - personal hygiene, especially his hair and teeth, would be my top guess for Sherlock's 'priority' list.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	4. Dark

"Damn it."

The whisper in the dark piqued John's interest much more than any impending case that they were working on. Sherlock didn't swear. Well, rarely ever, anyway.

"Problem?"

"Nothing." Sherlock's tone was short and abrupt, although louder now as he responded to John, and his voice was full of malice. "I can't see a _thing_," he snapped moments later, and there was a thud of probably his fist hitting the wall.

"Your eyes'll adjust."

Sherlock huffed. "I _know_ they will, but I _need_ to see now. I can't _believe_ they took our phones."

"Just hang out for a few minutes and you'll have enough adjustment to be able to see."

Sherlock shifted and slunk across the room, stopping next to John. "I have a confession to make."

"What's that?" John paused, beginning to feel the uneasy sense fill his veins. "Please tell me you didn't leave the nail polish remover on the griddle."

"No," Sherlock retorted immediately. "I did not."

"Oh. Okay, well, what is it, then?"

"... I don't like the dark," Sherlock muttered.

John blinked in surprise, tilted his head, and looked back towards Sherlock even though he couldn't see him, even at this proximity. "What?"

"I've always had a slight phobia of it since I was a kid," Sherlock said, voice sounded as though it was directed away. "Slept with a night-light when I was little, slept with the curtains open, and now Baker Street isn't totally dark because we're on the Central route..." he trailed off, and his voice got louder afterwards (he must have looked back towards John). "Essentially, it's deprivation of one of my senses and I'm not very good with... situations that take away one of my most important attributes."

John blinked, again. So, Sherlock was... what, afraid of the dark? That seemed _so_ unlikely, but the way he was explaining it made it seem so... obvious. Sherlock relied on his senses for his craft, so taking away his eyes - one of the most valuable senses, in any case - logically, made him uneasy. Scared, even.

Despite the fact that it was _hilarious_ that Sherlock was afraid of the dark, but it wasn't actually funny because the logic behind it made _perfect sense._

John didn't realize he was laughing until Sherlock huffed and flounced away. "Sherlock- Sherlock, I'm sorry," he muttered, trying to stifle his smile. "I was just thinking, that's... I mean, it makes sense for you."

"I'm not going to scream if something scuttles across my foot," Sherlock muttered. It sounded like he was starting to have a sulk. Only he would do that in the middle of them being locked up in a dark room after being captured and stripped of their useful belongings.

John couldn't help but smile at that mental picture. "Yeah, I didn't think you would."

"It just makes me uncomfortable," Sherlock said firmly.

"I know." John stumbled through the darkness after Sherlock. He grabbed his arm (he hoped it was his arm, anyway) and spun him around. He could barely see the glint of his eyes in the darkness. "It's okay, you know. Just sit down until your eyes adjust. Okay?" He reached blindly for Sherlock's other hand, placing it against the wall. "By the time they come back, it'll hardly look like it's dark in here at all." He gently pushed Sherlock down into a sitting position. "Alright?"

"I have no idea what I'm sitting on," Sherlock muttered.

"I think it's bags of sand," John said. "I caught a glimpse before they shut the door."

"Oh- yeah, it's sand. The bag's broken," Sherlock commented. "... That's a good defense, actually. If they come back, we can blind them by throwing it into their face."

"See?" John said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder firmly before moving away. "You don't need your eyes for your brain to keep up with."

"I _like_ having my eyes," Sherlock muttered. "They're the most important thing for a detective."

"I know," John said, sitting down on the floor. "But it's starting to adjust, right?"

"Yes. I think so." Sherlock shifted.

Something hit John in the kneecap. "Ow!"

Sherlock stilled. "... Sorry. I think that was you I kicked."

John laughed. "Yeah... I think it was."

"Sorry," Sherlock repeated, shifting again in the darkness. He, thankfully, did not kick John on accident again.

"Not a problem," John replied, and settled back against the wall in preparation of a long wait.

* * *

**Three year old Sherlock afraid of the dark? You know it's a cute mental picture, too.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you for your comments/favs/follows, and keep them coming! :D**


	5. Water

All Sherlock had recollection of was the slick of mud under his feet and then the ground moving before he'd gone down, landing with a _splat_ that sent chills into the seat of his trousers. Then he had been head over heels and in pain, dislocated from his body and his surroundings, before ice cold water had assailed his body.

It hurt immediately, pain shooting through his nerve endings from the ice cold shock of the Thames swallowing him whole. The cold sank into his body and his brain, but even worse, his clothes. He struggled to maintain control over his limbs, kicking out at nothing, grasping for anything, as his coat took on water to drag him away from the precious surface of the water, his scarf wound too tight and heavy around his throat. He was suffocating; he was drowning.

Panic flared up from nothing, swelling into a crescendo that crashed over his body just like the ice again, making him gasp out loud - but into nothingness. He inhaled water, choked, spluttered, tried to breathe and then not to. _Don't_, his mind supplied groggily, but the panic and adrenalin made his body uncooperative. He tried to hold onto his breath, but it was pointless; he hadn't expected to slip on the mud, he hadn't expected to go tumbling into the Thames, he hadn't taken a deep breath. His lungs were burning, drowning, drowning-

He didn't notice the arms around his chest immediately, too numb from the cold and the fear. But then his head broke the surface of the water and he gasped immediately, instinctively, choking on water and air and the scream bubbling deep in his chest.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, I've got you, I-I've got you, h-hang on."

The next thing he knew, he was on solid ground and he'd never been more grateful to feel the earth under his feet. His chest heaved and his throat was on fire, his fingers tightly knotted into the fabric of clothing that wasn't his own- _heavy, wet, wool, cold, familiar, cable knit, John._ Sherlock's eyes burned; his vision blurred anew as the tears formed. He blinked them away, unable to stop them falling, unable to stop the helpless feeling of water rushing into his lungs to drown him, the water pushing him down to bury him in its depths.

"It's okay, it's okay, Sh-Sherlock, t-talk to me," John said, pulling at Sherlock's coat. Trying to get it off of him, Sherlock realised belatedly, although it was all he could do to stop himself from trying to get to his feet to run, crawl if he had to, away from the Thames, away from the water- _stay calm, stay calm, stay calm_.

John wanted him to talk.

Sherlock didn't trust himself with words. He needed his control back, and then _maybe_ he could eke out a sad attempt for conversation.

"S-Sherlock?" John grabbed his shoulders.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, staring into John's eyes. Safe. Not drowning. Air. He could breathe. John. It was too cold. Hypothermia. Likely. That was a deduction that he could run with.

"... Cold," he croaked. He would rather die by hypothermia than by drowning.

"I know, I know." John removed his hands, looking wet and waterlogged but _pleased_ that Sherlock was talking to him.

It was progress, at the very least.

"Greg's c-coming, he was right behind us, we s-saw you go in, I d-didn't-"

Sherlock was suddenly helpless to slumping over and tucking his head into John's neck. He felt John jump, and then the arms around his back for support, and John questioning into his ear _"Sherlock, Sherlock, are you alright? Sherlock!"_

"_Drowning_," Sherlock choked out. He had to remind himself to breathe again. He couldn't stop shaking. Theoretically, in the cold water and in the temperature that it was outside, even hypothermia wouldn't pitch off into making him feel as cold as he was. But he couldn't stop shaking, and he was fairly certain most of it wasn't from the cold.

John seemed to pause in thought before his arms tightened around Sherlock's shaking frame. "Not on my watch, you daft git," he muttered.

Sherlock's laugh was strangled by fear and a throat that had swallowed too much of the Thames, but at least he had the breath to laugh.

* * *

John studiously didn't mention it later, once they had both been released from hospital, but Sherlock knew that he had been utterly transparent in those moments.

Or the ones that would follow, where he would inevitably skirt away from the water's edge if a case took them too close to the bank, or the way his eyes would linger on the tide if they were close to the rolling water.

It wasn't something that took a whole lot of imagination, honestly.

Afraid of drowning, how droll. Who _wanted_ to die by drowning? Still, it didn't mean he could shake it any more than John could shake the PTSD after a particularly gruelling case.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to forget the pull of the water dragging him down to the murky depths below.

"Did you make tea?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked at the two mugs in front of him, then glanced to the side to look at John. "Yes."

John blinked. Was it _still_ that much of a phenomenom?

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering sort of way, relishing in the feel of his lungs expanding with oxygen, and handed one of the mugs to John. "Maybe put the tea into your currently open mouth _before _it gets cold," he suggested, and smirked as John rolled his eyes, uttered a thank you, and followed Sherlock into the sitting room for a quiet night-in with crap telly.

* * *

**New chapter, different take on fear: Sherlock being just purely terrified and not being analytical about it. A little different to write, but I'm pleased with the effect. I'm still working on all these little fics. I haven't forgotten them. ^^**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading and stay tuned!**


	6. Failure

"No, no, no, no, _no_!" Sherlock batted his scarf out of his face, grabbed it and pulled it off his neck with a sharp jerk to send it flying away from his body, pushing that which was unnecessary away from his personal space. "I know it's here! I _know_-"

"Sherlock..."

"No!" Sherlock retorted, spinning around in a movement that kicked up dirt and dust and debris. "No, it's fine, it's here, I just need to-"

"Sherlock-"

"- figure out what I've missed, I must have missed something, but I know I'm still right, I know-"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up at John, swallowing back a pang of uneasiness as he forced himself to look at the doctor.

"There's nothing here," John said firmly.

"No, there is... there has to be..."

"You've been searching for two hours. You know as well I do that there's nothing. We can tackle this tomorrow, go home and start fresh after some sleep."

"I..." _know_. Sherlock finished the thought in his mind. Yes, he knew there was nothing here. Logically speaking he did. But he had deluded himself into his own deduction - a _wrong_ deduction and leaving now? It meant he _failed_. He had _failed_. And he couldn't face that without a dry mouth and an urge to flee and fling himself into a deep, dark hole dug specifically for him.

He did not. He spared himself the indignity of turning tail or the indignity of continuing to be adamant that was not here was. Instead, he collected his things, silently, and went home with John.

"Eat," John said, awhile later, after heating up leftovers shoved in the back of the fridge. He put a plate down in front of Sherlock, pushing his laptop away to make room.

Sherlock stared at the laptop, and grimaced at the food. "I'm not hungry."

"Eat it, anyway," John retorted, and sat down with his own plate.

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Queasy."

"Why?"

Sherlock's eyes were invariably drawn back to the laptop. "This clue... the missing clue..."

"If you're seriously telling me you've got yourself so worked up over a mistake..." John muttered, and Sherlock shifted a little at the notion itself. Fidgeting at the reminder of his failure, and being reminded just how much he needed to right what he had been wrong about.

He grabbed at the laptop and ignored the food and ignored John.

Ignored John, until John spoke again. "Why are you not allowed to make a mistake?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly, almost in disgust. Wasn't that obvious? "Because I'm Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective, as you're so fond of remarking."

"But you are allowed to make a mistake. You're only human, you _can_ make mistakes."

Sherlock bit back a groan of displeasure, of anxiety and unpleasantry. He slapped the laptop closed and bounded onto his feet. "Thank you for continuing to illuminate my failures, John."

"I'm just saying that there are allowed to be failures," John said, and narrowed his eyes as he chewed. "It goes further than that with you, though. You're angry, but it's more than that."

"_Great_ time for introspection here, John, there's a potential murderer on the loose," Sherlock retorted.

"Yeah, and you usually aren't so flighty when there's a potential murderer on the loose," John retorted. "You're pacing holes in the floor and you were panicking at the scene today. You say I don't see, but you're wrong. I _know_ you. I know your emotions."

_Emotions_. The grit on the lens! "John," Sherlock started warningly.

John plowed on. "You get panicky every time I bring it up and you're trying to mask it with anger and yeah, maybe you are angry, at yourself, but you're also freaked out by the fact you were wrong. So, why," John continued, "are you so afraid of being wrong?"

"Because I'm always right."

"No." John shook his head. "No, it's not that. Everybody's wrong at some point. I've _seen_ you pick wrong. Make the wrong decisions. You thought the drug was in the sugar back at Henry Knight's-" oh, God, not this again "- _and_ that damn pill, back when we first met-"

"I didn't pick wrong on that!" Sherlock interrupted.

"Which we never found out because they were mixed up before they got tested in the lab," John said. "But you're so quick to say that you didn't pick wrong, anyway, which proves my point: you're afraid of making the wrong choice."

"I'm not afraid of being _wrong_," Sherlock retorted.

"Then what is it?"

_I'm not afraid of being wrong; I'm afraid of failing!_

There were not many things that Sherlock was particularly _talented_ at. He could play the violin very well. He was a moderately good cook. He could draw, and he could sing (although he didn't), and he even knew how to push a sewing needle through fabric with a few different types of stitches. But, save the violin, those were not things he excelled at. His one true calling was, and always would be, solving mysteries. Be it a murder, a theft, a kidnapping, a mutant dog on the hills or a ghost in the night, he could solve the mystery.

That was his _function_.

If he could not fulfill that role, the one role that kept him clinging so tenuously to sanity and safety, then what did he have? He would be Sherlock Holmes, an ordinary person with no outstanding quality.

If he was wrong, it was irritating, and maybe a tiny bit humiliating, but he could pick himself back up and find the right answer.

But if he _failed_, he was useless. That was all.

Sherlock did not say any of that out loud.

Thankfully, he did not have to say anything at all, as Mrs Hudson chose the convenient time to knock with a cheerful little _"hoohoo- oh, sorry, am I interrupting?"_

"I'm going to bed," Sherlock announced, and spun away from his station at the window. "I'll be at Barts in the morning if you wake up late, don't interrupt me." Because he needed to find the _right_ answer, _an_ answer, so that this wasn't open-ended, and so there was a resolution. So he could protect the image he'd built for himself as much as solving the case at hand.

So what if it was selfish. So what if it was too self-absorbed, self-pitying?

It was how he had gotten by with what he had, and he planned on keeping it that way. Any other way would crack the entire fabrication of his nature and with only one thing to fall back onto, Sherlock was not willing to take that chance.

* * *

**A/N: I think this might have been mentioned by someone in a review ages again, but TAB made me think about it, so it finally happened either way. Sherly's very critical on himself. He comes across as bitter because he _is_ that bitter at the fact that he can fail.**

**Jumping tack, I'm hoping thunderstorm fear will be next. We shall see~**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading; stay tuned!**


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